


Heirloom

by tlbattle



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Gen, Slow Burn, Walks On The Beach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2019-08-19 12:53:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16534949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tlbattle/pseuds/tlbattle
Summary: There's a lot Charlie doesn't know about her grandfather's farm, Willowbranch Ranch, yet.But then again, there's a lot Charlie doesn't know about herself, either.





	1. Chapter 1

_This probably isn’t what Mom had in mind when she wanted a ‘better life’ for me_.

The hum of the computer in front of Charlie was like static, white noise that numbed her senses. Her eyelids scraped against her eyes with every blink, sandpaper against sandpaper. Her eardrums hurt from the constant whirring of the computer and when she leaned back in her chair, the cracking of her spine added to the cacophony assaulting her hearing.

The _clack-clack-clack_ of nearby keyboards; the constant sniffling from her coworker in the cubicle nearby; the horrid screeching of the printer.

Charlie’s own machine currently had a few windows open, the database of JojaCorp, Inc. splayed out before her, neon green text on a black background. The query she had been running for the last half hour had barely made any progress.

She rubbed her face with her hands, feeling every bit of the exhaustion seeping into her bones.

_Is this what zombies feel like?_

She slumped onto her desk, head in her hands.

“What am I even doing,” she mumbled quietly to herself. Without warning, she felt the sting of tears at the backs of her dry eyes. A sick sadness began to bloom in her chest, making it hard to breathe. Everything seemed to press upon her, the surrounding walls of her tiny cubicle feeling as if they were about to cave in.

The first tear was a surprise, but then a cascade of them spilled through her fingers and onto the floor.

She missed Mom. She missed Dad.

She especially missed _Gramps_.

Charlie spent the next few minutes silently crying into her hands, careful to stifle the sniffling to a reasonable level.

This had become ridiculous. _Her life_ had become ridiculous. Working every early morning into the late evening, without anything to show for it except a cold dinner when she finally came home -

JojaCorp had sucked all the life out of her.

Her windowsill garden had suffered and eventually died; her knitting had left half-finished scarves and hats around her tiny apartment; she couldn’t even read any of her favorite books because of how exhaustion constantly dogged her.

Charlie wiped the tears from her cheeks with a sleeve and swiveled in her chair, accidentally kicking her bottom drawer open.

“Ow - “ she muttered, rubbing the spot where the handle had made contact with her shin. She sneered at the drawer, but then stopped - a single letter sat in the box, addressed to her in her grandfather’s script.

Gently pulling the letter out, a fresh new wave of tears blurred her vision as she remembered the elderly man.

“Oh, Gramps,” she whispered, hugging the envelope to her chest.

 _“Open this when you’re missing me,_ ” he had said years ago. He had smiled at her then, the last day of her last summer on the farm.

 _I miss you, a lot_ , she thought, gingerly opening the envelope.

_“If you're reading this, you must be in dire need of a change. The same thing happened to me, long ago. I'd lost sight of what mattered most in life... real connections with other people and nature. So I dropped everything and moved to the place I truly belong. . . "_

Another piece of parchment paper fell out from behind his letter and Charlie stared at the deed for a few seconds before it clicked in her head.

Willowbranch Ranch. Stardew Valley.

. . .

She hadn’t even give her two weeks.

Charlie bought a bus ticket straight to Stardew Valley with only her duffel bag and backpack. She had sold her car and let her landlord know she was moving out all in the span of forty-eight hours.

It had been an awkward conversation with Lynette, the HR Administrator in their office, but the older woman had always been kind and understanding. She even promised Charlie she would break the news to their boss.

Now, there was nothing stopping her from starting over. She had no friends in the city - JojaCorp’s relentless hours had seen to that - and the hesitation of leaving everything behind had disappeared once she stepped onto the coach.

Charlie pressed her forehead against the bus’ cool glass window, watching as they exited the city and entered the suburbs, cookie-cutter houses and cul-de-sacs floating by.

She re-read her grandfather’s letter in her hand, the paper wrinkled and splotched with the remnants of her tears. She grazed a finger over his words, feeling the gratitude well up in her chest again.

Stardew Valley. Pelican Town. _Willowbranch Ranch._

She hadn’t been back in fifteen years; the last summer spent here was the summer before her parents died and then she was shipped off to live with her relatives in the city. Gramps had been sick for a long while, and then he too passed on a few months after her parents.

It was hard for her as a kid; Charlie remembers her awkward middle and high school years worsened by the grief. She had kept her head down and studied her pain away, throwing herself into homework and school.

She went to a pretty good college in a faraway town, had pretty good professors and even a pretty good boyfriend. But after graduation, she needed to make money and JojaCorp was hiring.

 _The dumbest decision I’ve ever made_ , Charlie thought now. Still, a smile crept onto her face and stuck there as the bus hustled over the bridge and into the countryside.

Greenery exploded from the ground, tall grasses and huge trees lining the road. Wildflowers were beginning to bloom, vibrant yellows and oranges and purples accosting her vision. The bus turned a long corner and Charlie sat straighter in her seat, trying to soak in the rest of the picture before her.

The _ocean_.

It was _right_ there, vast and welcoming and endless, crashing against the nearby stretch of beach. She could hear the waves slamming against the shore and then retreating; she cracked the window to smell the salty, fresh air.

No more long hours in a stuffy office, no more crying in a cubicle, no more _JojaCorp_.

Charlie was home.


	2. Chapter 2

_Oh, shit_.

When Charlie had first hopped off the bus and waved her thanks to the driver, the roadside station had looked familiar. Relying on a small paper map and her own memory, she had made her way to a trail she had traveled hundreds of times before in her youth, and then she recognized the weathered sign of _Willowbranch Ranch_ hanging above the archway to the farm.

But when she removed the chains from the rusted gate and pushed them open, she hadn’t expected _this_.

It looked as if the forest had attempted to reclaim Willowbranch for itself: weeds and wildflowers were overgrown, almost reaching her height, and a dark canopy from the many trees casted a shadow upon the entrance. A few large rocks were scattered nearby, as if a landslide had occurred earlier in the year and was never cleaned up. Critters and birds chirped in the hidden growth and Charlie suppressed the panic rising in her throat.

“Fuck,” Charlie said aloud now, after her _‘Oh, shit’_ moment had passed. With a deep breath, she fought her way through some of the weeds, trying to follow her muscle memory back to the cabin.

It was here, _somewhere_.

Finally, after a solid fifteen minutes of searching, Charlie made it to the front steps of her grandfather’s - now _her -_ cabin. She surveyed the damage the poor little house had suffered from time and weather, surprised to see the windows intact. The outer logs were a bit rough, but otherwise the cabin looked like it had survived the long years without an owner.

She patted the outside of the door affectionately and it swung inward, sending a cloud of dust into her face.

“Ach!” Charlie coughed, covering her mouth and nose with the collar of her shirt.

After a few blinks, her eyes adjusted to the darkness - the inside of the cabin was grimey and dusty, having sat unoccupied for more than a decade. The ancient fireplace was still fixed into the middle of the far wall and a small wooden table with its matching chair were nearby.

A stripped bed and her grandmother’s favorite wooden chest were to her right and Charlie stepped over to them. Dropping her duffel and backpack on the mattress, she set her hands on her hips and gazed about the one-room cabin.

“Talk about starting over,” she said with a sigh.

Rolling up her sleeves, she got to work.

. . .

Cleaning out her new home took Charlie most of the day.

She had arrived to the worn house around late morning, having taken the first bus of the day out to the Valley. She had found an old broom hidden near the fireplace and swept the entire place three separate times, pulling the chair and table and bed frame outside to really get to the grit embedded in the floorboards.

By the time she was wiping down the furniture with an old t-shirt, she was grateful there were only three pieces and the house was tiny. If her grandfather had a crueler sense of humor, he would have left her a much larger home with that much more to clean.

The sun was high in the afternoon sky as she set the table back in its original place with its chair, beat out the rest of the dust from the old mattress, and re-fitted some sheets from her grandmother’s chest onto it. Wiping her face with her shirt, Charlie smiled.

It didn’t look half-bad in here.

“Knock knock!”

Charlie jumped and turned towards the door, still ajar from her cleaning. An older man had poked his head in, a smile fixed underneath a gray mustache and matching hair squished under a cap. He grinned wider, his eyes twinkling with recognition.

“Now I _know_ that isn’t little Charlotte Willow,” the man said happily, laughing as Charlie relaxed into a chuckle of her own.

“Hi, Mayor Lewis, it’s been awhile,” she greeted with a nervous chuckle, walking over with a hand outstretched. He took it, shaking her hand vigorously.

The older man nodded, patting their clasped hands with his other free one before surveying the rest of the cabin.

“Hey now! It looks great in here!” he said enthusiastically, the bushy mustache bouncing along with his words. “Here - let me help you get a fire going, it gets chilly at night here in the Valley, even in the summer.”

The mayor had brought a bundle of firewood with him, neatly chopped and wrapped in a sturdy burlap cloth. He hauled it into the one-room cabin and together, the pair built a smoldering piles of tinder in the old fireplace. After a few minutes of prodding and careful fanning, the fire was happily burning.

Charlie offered the single chair to Mayor Lewis, but he waved it off. “I’ve taken too much of your time, already,” he said with another smile and moving towards the door. “If you need anything, I’m just down the road.”

She thanked him, shaking his hand again as he stepped onto her porch.

“Welcome back, Charlie.”

And then he was off, trudging through the same path she had cleared earlier that morning. She watched as the mayor slowly made his way back to town, whistling a little tune as he went.

. . .

The night was too quiet.

Charlie had unpacked her duffel bag and dug out her favorite coffee mug, the one Tristan had given her on their first anniversary back in college. She smiled down at the hefty little cup and felt a pang of nostalgia before chuckling to herself.

 _If only he could see me now_. City girl in the middle of the woods - _unbelievable_.

The water in the little pot she had set over the flames began to boil and she carefully pulled it from the fire. Pouring the hot water over the teabag in her mug, she let the blissful scent of chamomile wash over her as it steeped.

Charlie crossed her arms, holding herself and pulling her thick cardigan tighter. The silence in the cabin was only broken by the crackling fire; it felt like everything else was holding its breath.

No sirens, no people walking by her apartment, no weird noises from her upstairs neighbor - it was utterly and completely _quiet_.

She peeked out the front window, peeling the curtain back just enough to see the almost-full moon. It was bright and huge, illuminating Willowbranch’s overgrown weeds and the tall trees surrounding the property.

But it made their shadows long and unnatural too, dark figures seeming to creep towards her front door like monsters creeping out of a graveyard.

Charlie shivered, replacing the curtain and stepping back towards the warm hearth.

“Okay now you’re just freaking yourself out for no reason,” she muttered to herself.

She crawled into the little bed with her mug of tea, nestling into the old quilt that still smelled faintly like her grandfather - campfire and poppies.

She relaxed into the mattress, feeling the soreness of her muscles and bones after cleaning all day. She rolled over and faced the wall, attempting to smother her overactive imagination.

Was that the house settling, or monsters crawling onto the porch?

Was that howl a coyote in the mountains, or a werewolf hiding in the weeds?

Charlie rolled over and buried her face into the pillow, trying to block out the rest of the world.


	3. Chapter 3

Charlie woke early in the morning.

She had always been an early riser, her body stretching in response to the sunlight coming up over Zuzu City and into her tiny apartment. But this wasn’t her apartment and she couldn’t hear any of the city sounds; just a coo of some mourning doves as they too awoke with the sunrise.

Her vision was a bit bleary as she blinked, forgetting momentarily where she was in the first place. A familiar gloom showered over her as she thought she would have to roll out of bed and get to the JojaCorp office - but then she sank into a smile as it all came back.

 _Stardew Valley. Pelican Town. Willowbranch Ranch_.

“Right,” she said aloud to the cozy cabin. She slowly sat up in bed, propping herself up onto her elbows and grinning hard.

_I never have to go back, ever again._

She stood from her cot, her heavy socks protecting her feet from the cold wooden floor. Grabbing her cardigan draped over the single chair, she wrapped herself in the chunky knit and pulled on a pair of old, faded jeans. After yanking her boots back on, she tapped a finger against her chin.

She hadn’t yet seen the tiny community of Pelican Town, although she remembered it fondly as a friendly place full of well-meaning people. No doubt it would have changed, but secretly Charlie hoped not _that_ much.

But she _also_ hadn’t seen the ocean yet.

Charlie smiled again to herself, alone in her cozy cabin. A trip out to the beach sounded _wonderful_.

Opening her door to the chilly morning air, she waded her way through the tall grass. The salty air, the sand on her toes: the sea had always managed to set her mind right. Now _living_ this close to the ocean, how could she not visit everyday?

Her thoughts came to a halt as she herself did, her boot smacking into something very hard and very painful in the weeds.

“Ach!” Charlie yelped, holding her foot. “What the - “

Something shiny and metal peeked up at her from its hiding place and she jerked some of the grass out of the way to uncover what she had just ran straight into.

“A bike?” she muttered, pulling it upright. It was a bit older and a teeny bit rusted, the handlebars once painted a bright blue. The chain looked alright enough and Charlie teased the pedals; it seemed to still work.

The initials “C.M.W.” were carved haphazardly on the frame, a heart and a smiley face next to it.

“ _My_ bike,” she whispered. Tears suddenly welled up in her eyes as she was flooded with memories. Her grandfather had surprised her one summer day with this, a way to get around town when she felt like she needed a break from the farm and he couldn’t drive her.

“It’s a special bicycle,” her grandfather had said then, his eyes twinkling. “A bicycle blessed by Yoba Themselves!”

“You’re _joking_ ,” her eleven-year-old self had replied, giggling with him. “Yoba doesn’t bless bikes!”

“They blessed _this_ one,” he had responded, giving her a kiss on the forehead. “They only bless bicycles for _special_ granddaughters.”

. . .

The ride through Pelican Town was eerily quiet.

Charlie pumped the pedals on her old bike, letting it glide her through the same cobblestone streets she had navigated years before. The general store was still there, alongside the medical clinic. The community gardens looked well-kept and neat, while the Saloon stood empty and silent.  

She crept by Mayor Lewis’ house, finding her way back to the sea through muscle memory. The little bridge that connected Pelican Town to the ocean was the exact same, its cobblestones matching the square’s. She parked the bike on the bridge, leaning it against the low, stone wall.

It wouldn’t get stolen - she knew the town too well for things to ever get stolen here.

She stepped out to the sand, crossing over the single dune and onto the beach. The waves quietly lapped against the shore, as if the ocean itself was sleepy. Charlie passed the little abandoned shack and headed for the docks, debating whether or not to take her boots off.

A chilled breeze cut through her cardigan and she pulled it tighter. The boots were _definitely_ staying on.

Ignoring her own shivering, Charlie sat down on the edge of the furthest dock, the one with nothing between her and the sea.

The salted air, the slight cawing of seagulls nearby - it was _amazing_. She could sit here forever, _would_ sit here forever. This was what her grandfather wanted her to have; peace.

Her thoughts drifted like the wood she spotted on a rogue wave. She thought of JojaCorp and Lynette; she should really invite Lynette and her husband out here when the cabin was fixed up. It would be lovely to offer the older couple a bit of what she could experience everyday.

She thought of Tristan, back in Zuzu City, with his new fianceé. Charlie had never thought to come here with him, to the town where she held her most precious childhood memories of happiness with her grandfather. A pang of regret bounced around in her ribcage - as much as she wasn’t interested in marrying him anymore, Tristan had been one of her closest friends. She should’ve brought him here, should have shared this secret, intimate part of her -

“Well, g’morning!”

Charlie jumped, almost catapulting herself into the waves below. The voice was startlingly loud for this early in the morning and she whipped her head around to spot a smiling fisherman staring at her from inside his shop’s door, across from her on the dock.

“Oh! Didn’t mean to shock ye,” the man said, closing the door behind him as he stepped out onto the neighboring dock.

“It-it’s okay!” she called back, laughing a bit to ease her own tension. He smiled at her again, a fishing rod in one hand and a wiggling worm in the other. “G-good morning!”

“You got a stutter over there, miss?” the old fisherman responded, stabbing his hook with the live bait. A queasy feeling overturned in Charlie’s stomach, watching as the little worm stopped struggling.

“N-No,” she responded, stifling a gag.

“Oh - _ohhh_ , sorry!” the fisherman said, realizing she had been staring directly at the poor bait. He turned a little, hiding the rod behind his back. “Don’t worry, these little fellers don’t feel a thing.”

“That . . . doesn’t make me feel better,” Charlie admitted, standing from her spot and feeling as though she had been caught doing something she shouldn’t have, like sneaking out in the middle of the night or trespassing on the man’s dock.

The fisherman winced at her response, but recovered with a sympathetic grimace on his face. The pair stood there awkwardly for a moment as Charlie clenched and unclenched her hands in anxiety. He hadn’t been here when she was a child; she would remember a man who lived on the beach, she had been here all the time back then. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again as if he was about to say something.

Finally, Charlie softened.

“Wait - wait there!” she said to him, then hurriedly made her way from one dock to the other, jogging to meet him.

The old fisherman knitted his bushy eyebrows as she approached, curious now instead of grimacing.

She held out a hand, smiling tentatively. “Sorry - it’s early. Haven’t had my coffee yet,” she said. “Charlie Willow.”

The older man chuckled and wiped a hand on his faded red sweater. “No, no, that was my fault - shouldn’t have almost scared you right into the ocean.” He shook her hand, grasping it warmly. “William, but everyone calls me Willy. Nice to meet ya, Charlie.”

“Nice to meet you too, Willy.”

The old fisherman smiled again, then looked out to the great, blue-green waves crashing against the dock posts below. “Say, every handled one of these before?” he said, shaking his fishing pole a bit. “Want to learn a thing or two before the town wakes up?”

Charlie nodded, salt in her lungs. “Why not?”


	4. Chapter 4

Willy was a fountain of stories.

Charlie had spent the entire morning and the early bit of the afternoon with the old fisherman, listening to his recent seafaring tales and a lot of his old ones. And almost always she ended up laughing with him at a punchline to his own story, shaking her ramshackle fishing pole in hand as she cackled next to him on the dock.

The air had grown warm with the sun and Charlie had eventually peeled off her cardigan and boots, while Willy had rolled up the sleeves of his own sweater. The waves crashed against the dock posts, happily saying hello with every push.

“How about you, then?” said Willy now, teasing the reel on his fishing pole, an iridium beauty. Its purple handle glimmered in the sunlight. “What brings you back to Pelican Town?”

“My grandpa,” she responded without hesitation, tossing her line out again into the choppy waves. It plopped into the sea gently.

She hadn’t caught anything all day, while Willy’s bucket was overflowing with colorful fish. She didn’t mind.

“Aye, family’s important,” he said with a nod. “And why’d your grandpa call you back home?”

“That’s a good question,” Charlie mused, lifting the rod a bit to let her hook drag in the water. “I think he understood I needed a change.”

Willy laughed out loud, a nice rumbling chuckle that emanated from his belly. “Well, if it’s one thing Pelican Town _doesn’t_ do, it’s change.” He slapped his knee. "People change, sure. But Pelican Town? Same as it's always been."

Charlie laughed too before the pair fell into a comfortable silence. A few seagulls cawed towards them, eyeing the bucket. “Shoo!” Willy said to two of the birds who had managed to land nearby, waddling nonchalantly to the feast of fish. They flapped their wings at him, cawing even louder.

The old fisherman narrowed his eyes in response. “I better take this in,” he said, standing with a groan and snatching the bucket away from the birds.

Charlie watched as Willy disappeared back into his little shop and then checked to make sure his fishing rod was securely attached to the dock. She closed her eyes and breathed in the fresh air, letting the sun warm her face. The sound of the waves, the breeze on her skin, it was all much too good to be true.

“Excuse me,” a low voice said nearby, jerking Charlie from the edge of dozing.

She jumped, startled - and this time, didn’t quite catch herself.

Charlie plummeted into the waves below, the split-second of freefall enough time to yelp: “What the fuck - !”

The ocean was still cold, not yet warmed by the sunshine and Charlie sputtered as she dove head-first into the water. Liquid flooded her nose and lungs; her legs froze underneath her as the waves spun her round. She vaguely registered another distant splash as she internally shouted at her legs to kick.

They finally did, pushing her back to the surface of the ocean.

As Charlie broke through the waves, she coughed up a bit of seaweed before gulping in the sweet air. “Fuck!” she repeated, blinking hard against the sun’s reflections, a thousand tiny rays of light blinding her. She kept herself afloat, gazing around and upward for the voice that had shocked her into the water.

A strong arm wrapped around her waist and she yelled again, a pang of fear forcing a reactive kick outward. Her leg connected hard with whatever was attempting to drag her back into the ocean and she tried to kick again, but something caught her foot.

“S-stop - _k-kicking!_ ”  

Charlie blinked, focusing on a mass of auburn hair and a fellow sputtering human in the waves. Her mind clicked back into rational thinking.

“What are you doing!” she shouted.

“I’m trying to help!” he replied.

“Let go!”

“You’ll drown!”

“You’re _making_ me drown!”

Charlie shoved her foot at him again, this time breaking free from the crazed man and pumping her legs towards shore. She was a strong swimmer - _thanks, Mom_ \- and was dragging her soaked body onto the beach in a few more minutes. She collapsed on the sand, breathing hard.

“Holy smokes! Are you okay?”

Willy ambled up to her, waving a beach towel in one hand. Charlie propped herself up on her elbows as he wrapped the towel around her shoulders, rubbing the feeling back into her sea-soaked skin.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Some crazy guy tried to pull me under,” she continued, shivering as the breeze hit her.

Willy peered out to the ocean and then laughed, watching as a figure arose from the waves like Poseidon himself.

“Is that the crazy guy?” the old sea captain asked, pointing over to the emerging seaman.

Charlie squinted in his direction, recognizing the mass of auburn hair first. She noticed a set of broad shoulders next, and a button-down shirt plastered to a thin waist. “Ugh, yes,” she muttered, pulling the towel closer around her.

He approached the pair and gave Willy a firm handshake before kneeling next to Charlie. She could see warm brown eyes and a furrowed auburn brow. “Are you alright?” he asked, a tinge of concern in his voice.

The _same_ voice that caused her to jump straight into the water.

“It seems I . . . may have startled you earlier,” he said, a smirk on his face as if he was laughing at his own inside joke. Charlie had the sudden urge to yell at him.

“I’m _fine_ ,” she managed instead, wiping the seawater from her eyes.

He chuckled in disbelief. “Ah yes, I could tell you would be fine by the kick to my chin,” he responded, sharing a laugh with Willy.

She glowered, the first time she had actually ever frowned in Pelican Town’s city limits.

The man turned back to her, dripping wet and grinning. “I haven’t even introduced myself, have I?”

“No, you haven’t.”

He extended a hand and she warily took it, his fingers surprisingly warm against her own.

“Elliott.” He smiled, a jaw full of shining teeth. “And you are?”

Despite herself, she smiled in return. “Charlie.”


	5. Chapter 5

Charlie took another bite of her oatmeal and sipped at her lukewarm tea.

She peered over the map Mayor Lewis had given her when she first arrived a little over a week ago, little scribbles scrawled onto the tiny rectangular plots that represented the houses in town, her notes on the fellow townspeople of Pelican Town cluttering the paper.

Despite being a teeny tiny village, Charlie was still having trouble keeping everyone’s names straight.

At least Mayor Lewis had been kind enough to mark where should could buy some groceries and seeds at Pierre’s; and where she could commission Robin, the local carpenter; _and_ where she could purchase a few chickens at Marnie’s.

Charlie sighed. Cleaning up the ranch was going to be a daunting task, even with Gramps’ tools she found in the old shed. Weeds would need pulling, wildflowers would need trimming - trees and rocks would need to be broken down, and a thousand other things would need to be cut or chopped or cleared.

She ran a finger lazily on the surface of the thin map, tracing pathways in town before settling her finger at the beach.

Elliott. That was the man’s name, the writer by the sea who had jumped into the ocean after her. He lived alone, shut up in a small cabin; “Voluntary isolation” he had called it. To finish his future award-winning novel.

She marked the map with his name and a doodle of a book, then marked Willy’s shack with a doodle of a fish before smiling and laughing at her own drawings.

She downed the rest of her tea and pulled on her boots. Charlie opened her cabin’s door and breathed in the valley air.

_Let’s get to work._

. . .

 

It was the longest three weeks of Charlie’s life.

Everyday, she woke up with the sun and took a moment to assess her aching muscles, her entire body sore from the previous day’s work. Then, she would drag herself out of the bed and stretch, trying to offset another full day of physical activity.

But the emotional toll: that was the hardest part. Every time she stomped into the weeds with her unruly scythe, she had to remind herself to stay positive and choke down the panic in her throat.

She wasn’t a farmer - no, not _yet_.

She sliced through a cosp of overgrown weeds.

Charlie had zero success with keeping her old houseplants alive, and really had no business trying to prepare a ranch for crops and animals.

She swung the scythe again, this time through a thicket of thorny-looking bushes.  

But her Gramps had believed in her. _He_ hadn’t been a farmer when he first bought Willowbranch Ranch, either.

She paused to wipe the sweat accumulating on her forehead. And why gift her the deed to the Ranch if he didn’t think she could make it?

Charlie smiled, thinking of his wrinkled face grinning back at her. The familiar prick of tears at the back of her eyes made her blink furiously and she yanked off a gardening glove to rub them.

“Well! This looks just great!”

Marnie’s voice floated to Charlie as she approached from the southernmost part of the Ranch, stepping over a pile of would-be firewood and carrying a small basket. Charlie laughed as the fellow rancher shielded her eyes from the sun to survey the rest of Charlie’s hard work.

“You’ve really done a number on this farm, hon,” the older woman said enthusiastically. Her eyes shone underneath her sunhat. “You must be so proud.”

Charlie smiled harder, taking a look around herself. The ranch was still a work-in-progress, but at least it was resembling a real working farm now than just a piece of overgrown forest. “Took a long while, but I think I’m getting the hang of it,” she replied, leaning on her scythe.

Marnie tapped the basket with her free hand. “Here,” she said, peeling back the cloth and revealing a fresh loaf of bread and a small bottle of bright red liquid. Charlie’s mouth watered uncontrollably and she gulped.

“We had some leftovers at the house, thought you might need the fuel.”

“Marnie - you didn’t need - ” Charlie started, before her starving stomach interrupted them with a loud rumble. The pair shared a laugh as Charlie shouldered her scythe. “Come on, let me get us some cups."

“Oh, no, I can’t stay for lunch, I’m on my way into town,” said Marnie, pressing the basket into Charlie’s hands. “Need me to pick anything up?”

“This is more than enough,” replied Charlie. She genuinely smiled at the woman, a feeling of overwhelming gratitude scratching at her insides. “Thank you, Marnie.”

The older rancher smiled again, heading back to her own property before turning around as if she had forgotten something. “Say, what are you doing tonight?” Marnie asked, pausing near the overgrown path.

Charlie shrugged, gesturing to the rest of the brush she had yet to clear. “Probably this,” she laughed.

“Come on down to the Saloon tonight,” Marnie insisted. “It’ll be good to take a break, and everyone would be excited to hear about your progress!”

 _Oh._ Charlie shivered with a shot of anxiety. “Would they?”

The question slipped out before Charlie could chomp her mouth shut, the insecurity of her old life shining through. People in the Valley really _were_ this kind, weren’t they?

Marnie smiled, bustling over and tapping the young rancher on the shoulder. “They would. We can walk over together, let’s say around seven tonight?”

Charlie nodded and Marnie started back to the path, pausing to wave before disappearing back into the overgrowth.

She waved in return and made sure Marnie was definitely off the property before letting the tears bubble up to her eyes and down her cheeks. It was almost stifling how helpful everyone had been to her, this city rat turned country mouse overnight and stumbling through this whole ‘farming’ thing.

Charlie wiped her eyes again and retreated to her porch, settling down next to the basket. She sniffed the liquid in the bottle before tentatively tasting it. By Yoba, Marnie was _perfect_ \- homemade raspberry sweet tea sprang onto her tongue and made her mouth water all over again.

She sighed happily, sipping at the tea while gazing out over her property.

Maybe a little socialization would be good for her.


	6. Chapter 6

Marnie had arrived promptly at seven and chatted with Charlie most of the way into town, updating the young rancher on what kinds of feed chickens liked best (sunflower seeds, but not too often or they’ll get a little chubby).

Apparently, Marnie’s nephew, Shane, helped her out with the hens and even had his own favorite chicken - _also_ named Charlie.

Human Charlie had snorted at that as they arrived at the Saloon. “I’m sure he’s here, you should chat with him,” continued Marnie, although she sounded more worried than excited as she pulled the pub’s door open. She ushered Charlie inside, the jukebox loudly welcoming them.

It had been a long while since Charlie had been inside the cozy tavern all those summers ago and Gus had done quite a bit of work: a gleaming bar sat against the far wall and a few tables scattered about the dining area; but the newest addition of a game room off to the right caught her immediate attention, a few villagers she didn’t recognize chatting over a pool table.

The trio looked a bit younger than she and impossibly _cool_ \- two young men and a young woman, all with shining teeth and energetic laughs as they joked with one another. The two men looked like night and day - one with bright, blond hair that stuck up in all directions, while the other had a gloomy aura of dark hoodies and black hair.

But the young woman was the epitome of cool, playing a handheld game while the men argued over who should begin the billiards match.

She even had purple hair. Charlie could _never_ pull off purple hair.

“Hiya, Charlie!”

Mayor Lewis clapped a hand on her shoulder, turning her around. She stumbled a bit, finding her footing again on the shining wooden floorboards as he handed her a full glass of ale.

“You’re old enough for this, aren’t you?” he asked conspiratorially, half-joking. He laughed, nudging her in the ribs and ushering her into a circle of townspeople.

. . .

The beer was bittersweet, hoppy and complex.

Tiny notes of honey and maybe mint crossed her tastebuds and Charlie almost smacked her lips aloud. But she kept them together long enough to have the memory of Tristan’s smile fade from her mind, as quickly as it had appeared.

He had bought the brewery after their breakup and she had been bitter, like a sour ale in her soul - that had been their dream _together_ , owning a small brewery where the couple could create good beer for their friends and family. They had spent endless summer days in their cramped apartment, checking the beer kits they had built, watching fermentation happen in real time -

Charlie gulped her second beer down a little harder than she anticipated as she excused herself from the brainy conversation between Demetrius and his daughter, Maru. She took a few deep breaths as she steadied herself against the bar, her heart cracking against her lungs.

It felt like a lifetime ago, those lazy summers with him in Zuzu City.

Gus set down a glass of water in front of her and Charlie smiled gratefully. She took a few sips and slid into a barstool. “This is - this is seriously the _best_ beer I’ve ever had,” she said to the chuckling mustached man.

His cheeks reddened from the compliment as he refilled her water glass.

“Why thank you,” he said happily. “Took me quite a while to get the right recipe.”

“I would love to talk to you about your methods,” she said eagerly. She took another drink, feeling her mind clear with each sip. “I used to make brews myself, back home.”

“You should ask him about his wine,” a quiet, low voice said as a man gracefully seated himself in neighboring barstool. She smirked, recognizing the lilting baritone.

Elliott smiled at the bartender. “A glass of your finest _vin de table_  my dear Gus.”

The barkeep laughed heartily again as he bustled behind the counter, pulling a slick wine bottle from its case and expertly pouring a glass of the shimmering red, just a few shades darker than Elliott’s hair.

The writer demurely took a sip after swirling its contents for a moment. “Truly inspiring!” he said, holding the wine glass up in a faux toast.

Charlie’s eyes rolled so hard they nearly popped out of her head, but she couldn’t help the grin stretching across her lips.

Gus pointed to her nearly empty glass and she glanced down, realizing she had just chugged half of the water in two gulps.

“How about I grab you a batch from the back? I would love your feedback on this new recipe.”

“Oh - ” she managed. “Yes, please.” She nodded enthusiastically and watched as Gus disappeared, rushing into the backroom. It took a moment for her to realize that she had giggled aloud, and _another_ moment to realize Elliott had joined her, the echo of his chuckle lingering between them.

“I haven’t seen you on the beach in a few weeks,” he said then as Charlie swiveled in the stool to face him.

Elliott’s face was a cross between confusion and amusement, brows furrowed in playful concern. He took another dainty sip from his wine glass.

“Ah, not much time to drown in the ocean these days, unfortunately,” she replied, finishing the last of her water.

The man smiled into his drink. “I assume the ranch is in tip-top shape, then?”

“It’s. . . coming along.” The quiet anxiety in her gut swirled like the wine in his glass, bubbling to the surface. The farm was far from tip-top shape.

“That’s the same answer I give my parents back home when they ask about my novel,” he said. They shared a grin as hands tapped their respective shoulders.

Willy joined them, shaking them a bit to make room for himself between the pair. “ _‘Coming along_ ’ is still progress,” the older fisherman said, attempting a wise and world-worn tone.

Charlie and Elliott glanced at one another before breaking out into another fit of laughter. “Is that your best wizard impression?” Elliott said with a chortle, “You sound absolutely _grandiose_.”

“Oh you don’t know even know what that word means,” Willy responded, turning to Charlie. “Grandiose! Hah! He only pulls out those kind of words when a pretty lady’s around.”

He winked at her and Charlie burst into what she had wanted to avoid - her witch cackle, loud and uncontrollable, the harsh noise flipping a few heads her way. She slapped a hand over her mouth, stifling the laugh and biting her lip to keep the cackle inside her throat.

Pretty lady? Caked in dirt and stained overalls - _sure_.

“Sorry,” she finally said, wiping her eyes as Gus finally appeared from the backroom. “That was a good one.”

“One sweet gem berry sour ale for the newest member of our little township!” Gus announced, carefully holding a large bottle wrapped in a cold towel.

“This one is best enjoyed with friends,” the barkeep explained, pulling a few chilled glasses from a small refrigerator and pouring the trio generous pints.

Willy snatched his pint and held it aloft. “To Charlie,” he said merrily, “The pretty lady with the ugly laugh!”

The color rose in her cheeks but Charlie clinked glasses with the fisherman, suppressing another cackle. “To _progress_ ,” she corrected, raising her own pint.

Her eyes found Elliott’s, warm and earthy, and she smiled broadly as he touched his glass to hers.

He held her gaze, finishing the toast for her.

“To everything still coming along.”


	7. Chapter 7

Charlie was _definitely_ drunk.

Gus had uncorked nearly every special brew in the Saloon, pouring sample after sample for Charlie’s opinion. The tête-à-tête lasted well into the evening, with Elliott and Willy floating in and out of the conversation - Willy agreed that sour ales were the best, while Elliott chose to stick with his wine.

So, by the time Gus announced that it was closing time, Charlie was light-headed and giddy, excitedly scrawling notes of their discussion onto a bar napkin. She shoved it into her pocket, realizing a little too late that her fingers were slower than usual.

“Oh, no,” she muttered to herself now, attempting to force sobriety back into her body. She wobbled from the stool, draping the light jacket she had brought across her shoulders, and promised Gus to come by next week.

Was she slurring? She never slurred.

“Have a good night, Charlie!” he called from the end of the bar, too distracted with cashing out Mayor Lewis and Marnie to notice her uneasy footing.

Charlie feebly raised her fingers in return, suddenly feeling very self-conscious as she hurried to the door.

The night air was welcome, cool and sweet with the summer breeze as Charlie stumbled out of the Saloon. She pulled on her jacket, threading her clumsy limbs into the sleeves.

It wasn’t _that_ far from her cabin, was it?

She shuddered against the brisk wind, gazing down the dark road in the direction of Willowbranch Ranch.

Pelican Town was _much_ more eerie at night. The lighted lamp posts were dim, casting elongated shadows across the cobblestones; crickets and critters scurried in the bushes nearby and Charlie shivered again.

“C’mon, Charlotte, don’t be ridiculous,” she whispered to herself now, shaking her head to clear the fuzzy cloud of alcohol that had descended on her. Fear lay just beneath her dulled senses and the anxiety of walking alone into the darkness bubbled in her stomach.

She steeled herself. “It’s what, fifteen minutes away?”

“Maybe closer to twenty,” she heard Elliott say as he strode down the Saloon’s steps.

He had pulled on his own coat, a stylish and tailored overcoat that went past his knees. He shook his longer hair from his face and tucked a stray strand behind his ear, looking at her curiously.

“Are you waiting for an escort?”

Charlie hoped it was dark enough that he couldn’t see the color in her cheeks as blood rushed to her face. Alone in the night with a man she barely knew? In Zuzu, that was considered not only dangerous but foolish - how well did she even _know_ Elliott?

“It’s not far,” she said with a shaky laugh, trying to alleviate her fear of the dark. “I can walk it by myself.”

“I know you can,” he returned with a shrug. He stepped beside her and held out an elbow. “I just usually find journeys shorter with a companion. Don’t you?”

Charlie hesitated, brows furrowing. “This doesn’t mean I’m afraid of the dark,” she announced with liquor-induced bravado, snaking an arm through his.

She didn’t notice the little grin that flashed on Elliott’s face at the fierce proclamation.

The pair strolled leisurely towards the western road, slow enough that Charlie grew more confident in her still-wobbly legs. The night became less mysterious as her eyes adjusted to the feeble rays of lamp post light.

“I didn’t have a chance to ask earlier while you and Gus were deep in discussion, but how are you enjoying our small community?” asked Elliott as they approached the public gardens, cutting through the park. “When you have a chance to come into town, I mean.”

Charlie exhaled, relaxing her grip on his arm. “It’s. . . different,” she said after a moment of careful thought. “I’m not sure I’m adjusting well, to be honest.”

“Oh?”

“In the City, it’s about _‘the hustle’_ \- if you’re not making huge strides then you might as well give up,” she explained. “ _‘Coming along’_ is basically _‘doing nothing’._ ”

She sighed. “I still feel like I’m doing nothing.”

She couldn’t see his smirk, but she could hear it as he muttered playfully, “Ah, but some say coming along is still progress, isn’t that right?”

She giggled in the darkness. “What’s next after I clean up the farm and have a couple of animals, a few seasons of crops? What’s after _that?_ ” she mused. She sighed. “Sometimes, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Elliott was quiet beside her as they passed the medical clinic, the clip of their shoes on the cobblestones filling the night air.

“You know, I don’t believe any of us know what we’re doing,” he said, thoughtfully. “But we still bumble around in the dark, hoping that maybe eventually we’ll it figure out.”

“I wish we had a flashlight in the meantime.”

Elliott laughed beside her as the lamp posts grew scarce. There had been one every other block and then suddenly none altogether as they stepped off of the pavement and onto gravel, the loose rocks crunching underneath Charlie’s boots. It was even darker out here in the wild path between her farm and the township, blackness so dense Charlie couldn’t see more than a few inches in front of her.

She clutched at Elliott’s arm as the night swallowed them. His long fingers draped comfortingly over her own before he cleared his throat.

“Er - you’re holding a bit tightly, Charlie,” he said to her awkwardly, the soft hum of his voice breaking her reverie.

“Shit, sorry,” she returned, slipping her arm from his.

“Oh - wait - !”

Charlie, much less stable without Elliott to lean on, walked into the dark - only to snag her boot on a fallen tree branch or a clump of rocks.

She plummeted forward with a yelp, collapsing hard onto the ground.

Pain shot through her wrists as they took the brunt of her fall, rough gravel and sticks scratching against her as abrasions blossomed on her skin.

“Ow.”

“Oh, dear - don’t move, you might have hurt something.”

She didn’t have to time to even _consider_ moving as strong hands hoisted her up by the waist, easily plucking her from the ground. Her world righted itself as she toppled backward into Elliott’s chest.

“Are you alright?”

His breath was hot on her ear and her mouth was suddenly very dry. As the shock drained from her senses, she became acutely aware of both the sharp pain in her hands _and_ the warmth of Elliott pressed against her.

“I - I think I’m fine,” she managed, dizzy.

“Let’s get you home, it shouldn’t be too far.”

. . .

Elliott had been right - Willowbranch had been just around the corner.

A few minutes after her fall, Charlie sat in the cabin’s single chair, with a weak fire in the hearth and Elliott kneeling before her. She was very much sober now, the pain having knocked the drunkenness out of her.

He had settled her down and quickly stoked the fire before rummaging around in her trunk for the first aid kit Harvey had sent earlier in the week. She had then let him peeled her coat off, little tears in the sleeves from where she had fallen peeking through the fabric.

“Tss - ow!” she hissed, pulling her wrist away from Elliott’s hand and the cottonball soaked with liquid soap.

“If you don’t clean it now, it’ll get infected and you’ll lose your whole _arm_ ,” he said, semi-seriously. He held out his hand. “You don’t want that, do you?”

Charlie scrunched her face but eventually conceded, placing her wrist back into his fingers’ grasp.

“You sound like my mom,” she mumbled. Annoyed and embarrassed, Charlie was struggling to not sound like a whiny brat (the effort wasn’t going well).

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” she said weakly, watching his long fingers pluck another cottonball from the kit. He dipped the fluff delicately in the shallow bowl of water and she winced again as he applied it to her wounds. “I can bandage myself up.”

“Ah, I know you can,” he said, reaching for a roll of gauze. He unraveled a section and began to wrap her wrist. “Much like you can walk home by yourself, I’m sure.”

That grin was playing at his face again, his teeth impeccably white and straight, the laugh lines etched into his face moving effortlessly to accommodate the smile.

Charlie almost knocked him over when she gently shoved his shoulder with her other hand.

“Wow, Mom, _is_ that you?” she joked, eliciting another low laugh from him as he straightened.

“If I am motherly simply because I want your cuts and bruises to heal properly, then so be it.”

She watched as he stood and returned the kit to her trunk, closing the lid afterward.

The cabin seemed to shrink with two people in it. Elliott felt . . . _exaggerated_ \- she knew he was tall, but out in the world with no low ceilings and a healthy distance between he and her, Charlie hadn’t paid much attention to his height before.

But now he was _much_ too close to her, towering. He was so close she could see a dusting of freckles on his skin, dotting his forearms and cheeks and nose. His hair caught the firelight, reds and oranges and even a few strands of dark brown tucked into a loose bun at the base of his neck. Charlie thought it was almost like the fire itself had set his head aflame.

He rolled his sleeves back down to his wrists, the freckles disappearing underneath the fabric as he buttoned the cuffs.

“I suggest you take it easy on your hands these next few days,” he said, shrugging into his overcoat and fixing his collar. He eyed the twin bandages on her arms. “Yard work is no doubt hard on the wrists.”

She stood as he moved towards the door. “Will you be alright getting home?” she asked nervously as he stepped into the inky black night. Her little porchlight doused them in a minuscule pool of illumination, but beyond that lay nothing but the dark.

He smiled. “Now _you_ sound like _my_ mother.”

They shared a laugh, Charlie relaxing against the doorframe as his hands slipped into his coat pockets.

“Goodnight, Charlie,” he called, starting down the stairs.

“Goodnight, Elliott,” she muttered, watching as his figure melted into the cool summer night.


	8. Chapter 8

Apparently, thought Elliott, Charlie didn’t know the meaning of ‘taking it easy.’

The morning had been normal enough. The now-familiar sounds of the ocean’s waves gently collided with the shore, creeping onto the sands before receding. The occasional gull cry had broken the otherwise gentle quiet and Elliott yawned as he stretched in his sheets.

The writer eventually sat up and rubbed his groggy eyes, to peer out a narrow window and survey the weather. The sun hung lazily on the horizon, as if it too was wondering if it needed to get out of bed.

And that’s when he heard it - the unmistakable _thunk_ of metal on wood.

Elliott listened carefully, straining his ears. Maybe Willy was outside, trying to fix that broken old dinghy? But it was so _early -_ the fisherman never gave up an opportunity of fishing this early when the creatures were still dumb with sleep.

_Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk -_ there it was again, this time in rapid succession.

“What in Yoba’s name,” muttered Elliott, swinging his legs from the bed and crossing the length of his cabin in a few steps. He poked his head out the front window, squinting from the bright light of the morning.

The beach was deserted except for the trees swaying in the ocean wind and a figure off to his left, crouching in overalls and an old baseball cap. He recognized that bandaged wrist as the figure held the hammer aloft, then slammed it into another piece of driftwood.

“Charlie?” he muttered, blinking as if to focus on the figure as he still hung from the window. “Charlie!”

The figure paused, mid-swing, and turned her head to gaze at him; she was too far for him to see her eyes, but he could make out the grin that descended on her face. She plucked a few nails from her mouth and made her way over to his cabin.

She was barefoot on the sands and the longer-sleeved shirt she wore underneath the overalls was stained with what Elliott assumed was bike grease and dirt. Charlie had also corralled her hair into a small, stubby ponytail that stuck unceremoniously out from the hat’s strap.

“Morning, Elliott!” she greeted.

“What are you doing out here so early?” he asked as she sidled up to his window. He took a step backwards so she could lean an elbow on the sill.

“Working on a project,” she said with a shrug, grinning up at him. Her sun-soaked skin was a few shades darker than he last saw her a few days ago and he could see a stray strand of her hair was dancing in the breeze, charcoal black and begging to be tucked back under her cap.

He cleared his throat.

“So _early_ though?” he insisted. “A few of us are attempting to continue our normal sleep patterns, you know.”

Charlie grinned harder at that. “It’s almost seven in the morning,” she said. “I’ve been up since dawn.”

“How _grand_ for you,” he returned as a yawn creeped up his throat. She leaned on the windowsill and he could see the bandaged wrist poking out from her sleeve.

“You shouldn’t be brandishing a hammer with those injuries,” he said, frowning. “You could agitate your wrists even more.”

She shrugged again, scrunching her nose and looking back towards her unfinished project. “Elliott, I’m so _bored_ at the ranch,” she said after a moment. “I can’t hold my axe, can’t lift my pick, can’t even pull _weeds_.”

She sighed. “Swinging a light hammer is the only thing I _can_ do.”

Elliott followed her gaze to the old footbridge - the one that had been destroyed in last fall’s flash flood. Charlie had already finished rebuilding half of it, the new boards looking much sturdier than before.

She turned back to him, setting her chin on her folded arms and gazing up at him from under the bill of her cap. “Of course, if you think I should go home and sit around for the next few days, _bored out of my mind_. . . ” she said, sadly.

He huffed.

“Wait one moment then,” he said, disappearing into his little cabin. He shuffled through his drawer, pulling on the first shirt he could find, and walked out of his front door.

. . .

Charlie was much handier than he originally thought.

Elliott had assumed she was simply _un-_ handy since she had come from Zuzu City, much like himself when he had first moved to Pelican Town. He still remembers embarrassingly asking Leah to help him hang a few art pieces in the cabin after failing miserably on his lonesome.

But Charlie - she took to crafting the bridge like a hermit crab to an empty shell. Using only her mind and a small length of measuring tape, she had made sure the boards were linking together correctly.

Elliott had taken over hammer duty, tapping the flat-headed nails into the places she had marked with her little piece of chalk. By the late morning, the footbridge was finished: strong enough to hold a person and sturdy enough to withstand another flash flood, surely.

He watched as Charlie hopped up and down on the bridge, testing the boards herself. They bounced with her weight and she tapped her chin with a finger, thinking, before gazing over at Elliott.

“C’mere,” she said, holding out a hand and gesturing him towards her.

“What?” he asked, setting the hammer down on the ground again.

“C’mere?”

“What are you _saying_?”

“Oh, by Yoba - _come here_.”

“Ah yes, ‘come here’,” he said, nodding and taking her hand. She hauled him up onto the boards with her strong grasp, shaking her head at him. She seemed to roll her eyes frequently at him, but Elliott found that he didn’t mind as long as it was accompanied by a smile.

The bridge creaked underneath their feet, but held firmly under their combined weight. Charlie bounced again.

“I think we did a pretty great job,” she said, planting her hands on her waist. “Wait ‘til I tell Willy about _this_.”

She hopped down to the main beach’s side and Elliott followed, watching as she collected her chalk and tape alongside the hammer. Dumping sand from her boots, she placed them under an arm, too.  

“I’m sure he’ll be happy to set his crab traps near the tidal pools again,” he agreed, pulling his hair back into a low bun. The sun had grown hot with the morning and he had long since rolled up the sleeves of his button-down. Charlie had even hiked up her shorts an inch or two to let her legs breathe.

“How are the wrists feeling after our successful project?” he asked as they began to walk the length of the beach, lazily floating towards Willy’s fishing shack on the docks.

She moved them in front of him, her hands flexing and rotating. “A little sore but I’ll live,” she said. “Nothing that a beer won’t fix.”

“A beer at eleven in the morning?” he said, in faux disbelief. “Perhaps your recovery _has_ been too lackadaisical.”

She nudged him in the ribs, her sharp little elbow hitting him just below the chest. They lapsed into a comfortable silence for a minute or two, the sound of waves crashing onto the shore happily replacing their conversation.

“Gus loaned me a keg,” she said after a while, breathing in the ocean air. Elliott glanced at her as she shook out her hair from the baseball cap, her black bob released from the hair-tie. “I think after I finish fixing up the ranch, I’ll get back to my brewing roots.”

“I think that’s a superb idea,” he replied, smiling in return. “Of course, you’ll have to invite Willy and I over for a tasting.”

She chuckled nervously. “Depends on if I make anything worth tasting.”

“I’m sure - ”

Before Elliott could finish his encouraging statement, Charlie’s arm had shot out in front of him, stopping the man from taking another step forward.

“What - Charlie?”

She crouched low to the sands, holding her hand out to something. He knelt beside her, watching as a small hermit crab tentatively inspected her fingers.

“You almost squashed this tiny guy with your giant foot,” she stage-whispered to him, as if to not frighten the creature. The crab made its way onto her outstretched hand, its claws clacking.

“I don’t have _giant_ feet,” muttered Elliott, watching as the crab turned to inspect him. Up close, the sea creature wiggled its eyes and Elliott thought that crabs were adorable in their own right - perhaps not like how puppies or kittens were, but still cute.

The pair straightened, standing. “Where’s your house, little man?” she asked the naked hermit crab; its eyes wiggled in its head again, the small pinchers opening and closing slowly.

She nodded as if she knew what the crab was saying and Elliott couldn’t help but smile. She was endearing, cradling the creature in her hands delicately. Charlie seemed to be full of surprises to him this morning.

“He appears to be homeless at the moment,” said Elliott, holding out his own hand. Charlie’s fingertips grazed his as the crab happily hopped from one hand to the next. He slipped the little crab into his shirt pocket, feeling the creature nestle in and get comfortable. “He’ll need a new shell.”

“Let’s see if Willy has any lying around,” Charlie said, grinning.


	9. Chapter 9

The letters came two weeks after Charlie returned to working on the farm, when the mid-summer sun was glaring down her back and the buzzing insects were at their loudest. There were no cooling winds today, just the heat and stifling, dusty air.

It felt good to swing her scythe again, even better to haul stray pieces of brush into a growing compost pile. The week of recovery had turned her muscles into pudding and it took _another_ week to rebuild her stamina. But now she felt like herself again, running on a routine of tea, ranch-work, and sleep.

She was hauling the last of the stray brush into a compost pile when she noticed Mayor Lewis on his way towards the gates, whistling as he headed down the dirt path from Pelican Town.

“Hiya, Mayor Lewis,” greeted Charlie. He held up a hand in return and she met him at the gates, pulling off her cap to wipe the sweat from her brow.

“A scorcher today, huh?” Mayor Lewis said as he leaned against the gates. He fanned himself with the cap he usually wore, sweat beading on his face. “Haven’t had a heat wave like this in a _while._ ”

“Glad to know it isn’t frequent,” she said, noticing a neatly wrapped package under one of his arms. “What brings you around?”

“Ah,” he said then, seeming to remember the reason for his visit. He replaced the cap onto his head and handed her the package. “A few of your parcels were accidentally delivered to my house.”

Charlie took the proffered package, realizing it was a series of envelopes tied neatly in a swath of paper and twine. “Oh - thank you, Mayor.”

“It looks like a few people are trying to get ahold of you,” he explained with a chuckle. “But don’t necessarily know your exact address. My residence is publicly listed as the town’s city centre, so it makes sense they sent ‘em on over to me.”

A few people? Charlie tried to think through who would want to contact her - maybe her old Zuzu City landlord? She _did_ leave in a hurry.

“Thank you again,” Charlie said, holding the package close to her. “Could I get you some water?”

Mayor Lewis waved her off, shaking his head. “No, thanks - I’m heading over to the Stardrop for some business. Have a good one, Charlie!”

With that, he started back up the road to Pelican Town proper, leaving Charlie with the envelopes clutched to her chest. She retreated to her cabin, the cool interior giving her a brief respite from the brutal heat.

Pulling the chair from her little table, Charlie untied the twine and unwrapped the envelopes waiting inside. She had been right - one was from her landlord, returning her security deposit in the form of a hefty check. Relief flooded Charlie’s mind for a moment; she had been getting low on funds lately, her savings nearly depleted.

“Two or three months,” she muttered to herself. That’s how long the check should last, if she was careful.

She tucked the check away and opened the next letter, one with a JojaCorp stamp on the front. Her heart skittered in her chest - had JojaCorp come to pull her back in?

Charlie opened the letter, a few hundred dollars falling out the envelope. “What the - ?”

* * *

 

_My dear Charlie -_

_I hope this letter finds you well! Edwin and I are very happy for you, chasing after your farming dream! Not many young people make their way out of the corporate hum-drum and we’re proud of you._

_The city is becoming a bit crowded for us elderly folk - we may find ourselves traveling down soon to join you, hah!_

_Here - just something for your nest egg, having a farm is hard work. Write soon, lovely!_

_Best,_

_Lynnette & Edwin _

_P.S.: Feel free to write to our little apartment instead of the office:_

_1001 Ferngill Avenue_

_Apartment #4_

_Zuzu City_  

* * *

 

Lynnette! That wonderful woman!

Charlie didn’t notice the tears trickling down her cheeks until a few dropped on the letter, splotching the ink from Lynnette’s pen.

“Oh, shit,” she mumbled, dabbing at the stain with her sleeve. Wiping her face, she folded the letter back into its envelope and hid them away in her trunk.

She had to write Lynnette back, to thank her, to let her know she was doing alright - well, getting by.

 _Coming along_ , she thought with a small smile.

Charlie rummaged around her trunk for any sort of writing supplies, then clicked her tongue.

“Of course,” she muttered, finding none. Would Pierre have any notebooks? Any loose leaf? Charlie tried to remember if she had seen any pens or paper at the general store, but swirling memories of seeds and fertilizer greeted her instead.

_Wait. . ._

Charlie rolled her eyes at her own thoughts; if there was _anyone_ who had a few spare pens and paper, she knew _exactly_ where to find them.

. . .

Elliott’s cabin, at first glance, did very much look abandoned.

The outside of the hut was comprised of driftwood and decorated with various things reclaimed from the waters - baubles of sea glass, old fishing nets, and a small lantern no doubt rescued from a sunken ship coated the external walls of the writer’s cabin.

As Charlie wheeled her bike over to the front door careful enough not to get her tires too entrenched in the sands, she thought the entire hut looked like a treasure chest pulled ashore.

She tapped lightly on the door, her knuckles hesitant.

She could hear a bit of shuffling inside, perhaps a chair scraping against the wooden floor, and then a few moments later the door swung open to reveal the writer himself. His locks were unkempt and down, hair hitting his shoulders in small auburn waves. She had caught him off guard - he wore a simple white t-shirt with casual slacks, barefoot.

“Charlie,” he said languidly, “I wasn’t expecting a visit from you. Please, come in.”

“Hiya, Elliott,” she replied happily, stepping inside the cool interior as he gestured for her to enter. “Er - sorry for dropping in.”

Charlie glanced around curiously as he waved her apology off. Elliott stood by his desk, pushed up against the far corner, rearranging a pile of loose leaf paper inked with scribbles. A single rose sat amidst the mess, drooping a bit.

A piano crowded the rest of the wall, an upright one with yellowed keys. And then, on top of the piano itself, was an aquarium - Charlie could see the label of a Joja Cola can half-buried in the layer of sand coating the bottom half.

“Oh wow, Harry kept his little house,” she breathed with a chuckle, leaning forward towards the aquarium. As if summoned by the sound of her voice, Harry the small hermit crab peeked its head out of the soda can, wiggling its eyes as it surveyed her. Charlie liked to think he (or she) recognized her and waved with her index finger.

Elliott joined her, bending low to greet the crab himself. “Ah yes, they’ve taken quite a liking to JojaCorp apparently,” he joked. Harry clicked their claws again as Elliott straightened.

“It seems you’ve caught me at an inopportune time,” he said to her then with a deep sigh, turning back to his writing desk. She watched as he fingered the top page of a stack, his face contorting into a grimace.

“What’s wrong? Run out of deep conditioner?” she said with a smirk. He barked a laugh, but the frown still clouded his otherwise handsome face. He ran a hand through his hair, long fingers untangling the strands.

She approached the desk - inkwells and fountain pens scattered the surface, the small rose appearing as an afterthought, almost out of place. “Okay, okay - what’s _really_ wrong?”

“I’m afraid I have a bout of writer’s block,” he lamented, his frown deepening. “Old doubts creeping up, of course.”

“ _Your_ doubts or doubts _about_ you?” Charlie asked, organizing a few inkwells into a proper line.

“Interesting question,” he murmured. A long finger tapped his chin as she watched his expression change into a more thoughtful one. “I believe it would be doubts _about_ me, unfortunately.”

He sat in the desk’s chair, his long legs crossing over one another as Charlie leaned on the desk itself. “ _‘For every one successful writer, there are a thousand who fail miserably_ ,’” he quoted, a delicate hand whirling through the air. “Everyone in my hometown is a saddened pessimist. I suppose I’m projecting their doubts.”

Charlie nodded as Elliott rubbed his eyes with one hand, blinking blearily. It was striking to see him like this, downtrodden - she had come to associate Elliott with a confidence that seeped into his very bones, not necessarily _arrogant_ but self-assured - composed, poised, nearly authoritative.

Self-doubt, she had assumed, was foreign to him.

“Ever think about success as just a bunch of little failures?” she said, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow. “Who says that you have _one chance_ to be successful?”

Elliott peered at her, leaning back in his chair as if noticing her for the first time. He mirrored her, pulling his arms across his chest. “I’m listening,” he said, his soft eyes sparking with intrigue.

“Take farming, for example,” she continued. “I couldn’t work for _three days_. So, what? Do I sell the farm now? Abandon all hope? Technically, I failed for three days _straight_.”

Elliott’s face softened, the ghost of a grin playing at the edge of his lips.

“Take _Harry_ for example!” Charlie said, hopping up and rushing over to the hermit crab. She pointed at the little crustacean for emphasis. Harry waved in response.

“Homeless!” she exclaimed. “Nearly pelican food! And look at them now - outfitted with a _sick_ house. With a little help from their friends, of course.”

She could see Elliott fully smiling now, a hand covering the lower half of his face to keep from laughing. Charlie returned to him and nudged his knee. “Honestly, who _cares_ what other people think?”

“I dare say you’re right,” he said finally, leaning an elbow next to the manuscript. “I do, however, care what _you_ think.”

He had caught her unprepared, the humor in her voice evaporating with his serious statement.

“M-me?”

“You’re my friend, aren’t you? Of course I care what you think,” he replied. She waited for him to crack another smile, for that smirk to appear on his face, but it failed to materialize.

“Tell me, Charlie, what kind of books do you read? Sci-fi? Horror?” he asked quietly. “Romance?”

Charlie felt her face warming, the familiar heat flooding her cheeks. He was patiently waiting for her answer, staring attentively towards her as if nothing else was more important than her reply.

Was his breathing quicker than normal? Or was that her?

“Memoirs, actually,” she whispered, as if it was a secret. His eyes were boring into hers, fingers laced together elegantly in his lap. She broke the gaze, casting her eyes downward at her own boots. “Reading about other people’s lives kind of keeps me distracted from my own.”

She chuckled weakly, tentatively peeking at him. He was still staring at her, his posture a little more relaxed.

“Memoirs,” he echoed. “Interesting. I’ll remember that, Charlie.”

“Yes. Well,” she said after a moment, standing straighter. “I actually did come by to ask a favor, not to give you whirlwind, life-changing advice.”

The easy smile was making its way back to Elliott’s face now and he stood as Charlie did. “Let’s see if I can be of service, then,” he said. “What are you in need of?”

“Paper,” she said simply. “And an extra pen.” She glanced down at the inkwells that still crowded the writing desk. “A _normal_ pen, if you can spare one.”

He laughed. “I’m not trapped in some romantic-Victorian time-suck,” he said, pulling a drawer from the desk. "At least, not all of the time."

Standard writing pens and pads of notepaper were crammed in the box and she watched as he rifled through to find a fresh notebook with a few pens in the mess.

Did his hand linger over hers as he slipped the supplies into her grasp? The warmth of his fingers made Charlie shiver, gooseflesh spreading along her arms. She thanked him, moving towards the exit, Elliott’s seaside shack suddenly stifling.

“Charlie,” he called as she opened the door, the salty breeze wafting into his hut. The cool wind dragged Charlie back to reality, the sea greeting her again with the noise of waves slamming into the shore.

She turned at the sound of her name, catching Elliott as he stood in the doorway, his head barely scraping the top of the cramped frame.

“This was - nice,” he said abruptly. She watched as he gulped, one of his hands finding its familiar way into his hair. “I don’t normally receive many visitors. Please, come by anytime.”

Charlie grasped the handles of her bike after depositing the pens and notebook into the basket.

“Don’t worry, next time I won’t even knock,” she said with a laugh, watching as his grin stretched wider. She hiked her way back up to the bridge, forcing herself to keep her eyes on the path ahead and decidedly _not_ on the intriguing writer who lived by the sea.

. . .

Charlie hadn’t realized there was one last letter at the bottom of Mayor Lewis’ pile.

Tristan’s note sat casually underneath Lynnette’s, his handwriting still blocky but with an unfamiliar return address. Hesitating, Charlie held the envelope in her hands.

 _Tristan_. How long had it been? Two years? Three?

She had met him halfway through college - he a year younger, but in the same History of the Republic class.

She could still see him, his curly blond hair and almost-always sunburnt cheeks and nose. He never put on sunscreen, having grown up in the sunny Grampleton territory.

“I don’t need it,” he had explained once during another visit to the city’s public pool. His baby blues had shone up at her as she tried to place at least a smudge of sunblock on his nose - and then he had tipped her back into the chlorine water, laughing.

They had been so young, so in love then. Ugh, they had been so _good_ together -

Charlie shut her eyes tight now, a familiar headache pounding at the back of her skull, before ripping open the envelope.

* * *

 

_Dear Charlotte,_

_I heard you’ve moved out of Zuzu City. Down to Pelican Town, over in Stardew Valley - your landlord gave me your new address._

_This is Tristan, by the way._

_You probably knew that from the outside envelope. Sorry._

_I remember you telling me all about your grandfather’s farm, the one near the ocean you love so much. Are you fixing the ranch back up? Getting a coop? Haha, I can only remember a few of the names you gave your grandpa’s chickens. Wasn’t Loretta one of them? Or maybe Pipsqueak?_

_I’m not sure why I’m writing to you. Sorry again._

_I hope you’re spending time at the beach, getting dirt underneath your fingernails, feeling the sun on your face, smiling, laughing that witch’s cackle (you know the one haha)._

_I_ ~~_hope_~~ _know you’re doing well._

_With love,_

_Tristan_

* * *

 

_One, two, three, four, five. . ._

Charlie took a few unsteady breaths, the ghost of their relationship igniting some painful nostalgia buried deep in her mind like a semi-forgotten dream.

She was different now - no longer a JojaCorp slave, no longer that girl crying in a wedding dress, clutching a heartbreaking note. The few weeks in Pelican Town had done more for her healing than a year of professional therapy.

The paper Elliott had given her was so pristine, it was almost painful to mark the page. But she did so anyway, writing carefully.

_Dear Tristan, I got your letter . . ._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been on vacation! Which means a hefty chapter and surprise letters from ex-fiances :)


End file.
